Becoming Distinct with Love
by forthegenuine
Summary: Three moments he watches her sleep, and one when he watches her wake. (itty bitty spoilers for Series Three; rated for later chapters)
1. slowly

"sometimes i am alive because with  
me her alert treelike body sleeps  
which i will feel slowly sharpening  
becoming distinct with love..."  
––e.e. cummings

* * *

**1\. slowly**

She retired to the spare bedroom of her own flat some time ago. Sherlock remained on Molly's sofa, wide awake. For a corpse thirty-eight hours cold, he was in relatively good shape.

He sat rigidly on Molly's hideously upholstered sofa, elbows poised on his knees and fingers steepled in front of his meditative face. A mug of tea, gone cold an hour ago, sat next to his idle mobile and remained nearly untouched on the coffee table, save for a few sips. He looked across the living room, at the bedroom door, on the other side of which lay a sleeping Molly.

He had gone against Mycroft's advice to let him be spirited away from Bart's to a safehouse, and opted instead to intrude on Molly's kindness further and stay at her flat, whilst final arrangements for his exile could be made. He couldn't be accused of sentimentality because, he reasoned, a tinted luxury sedan didn't exactly _scream_ surreptitious getaway––oh wait, it did. At least he told Mycroft as much.

He spent the previous night in Molly's guest bedroom, though he hardly slept. He paced around the room mechanically, though neurons and synapses afire, cataloging and reorganising his mind palace to accommodate new and old information about Moriarty's vast criminal network. He worked out his next move, as he wore a light tread around the small carpeted room––nine short paces all the way across; the fifth step, the one next to the bed, creaks, loose floorboard. After a few hours, he was roused from his mind palace when he heard Molly rising in the bedroom next door, getting ready for work. It was then that he knew his task was definitely a ten plus––an eleven, even––and that he would soon have to leave London, as the radiations of Moriarty's web would not be so easily unraveled from the comfort of his newly acquired bolt-hole.

He texted Mycroft details of his final plan, using an alias of course, from a pre-paid untraceable mobile he would later have to discard. Easily done. He replaced the device back into his pocket, putting off making the phone call that clenched at his heart whenever he thought of it. Mycroft, however, imperiously reminded him it must be made.

He waited until he heard Molly lock the door behind her, and was nearly completely alone, to emerge from the spare room. By then, a gloomy morning light had diffused its way into the living space. Toby, watching from his perch on the settee, kept his distance from him, looking quite unsure of what to make of the flat's new occupant. Sherlock proceeded to the kitchen on un-socked feet, and found a carton of Ready Brek––hm, honey flavoured––and a mug of coffee––still warm, black, but hardly sweetened. He emptied the mug of its contents, letting the caffeine reinvigorate his senses. His thoughts turned slightly bitter as the coffee he had just swallowed, wondering if this would be his last homemade meal, such as it was, for a while.

Before he allowed such despair to course through him, he brought the prepared cereal with him to the living room, and took a seat on the sofa, setting the bowl––he couldn't even recall the last time he had a proper meal––on the table in front of him. Toby's watchful gaze remained trained on him, regarding him with a mixture of interest and apathy. He turned on the television, desperate for some kind of distraction. As soon as the image on screen materialized, however, an exasperated sigh escaped him when he saw his own face reflected back at him––though in the still photograph, he was less bedraggled and more ear-hatted. An insipid pundit was spouting off hearsay about the sensational scandal over the boffin detective's suicide. It seemed to Sherlock there was no sign of the media letting up on the news of his supposed death... which of course meant his name would soon be replaced from the headlines by some starlet's philandering, oh some time next week.

"All the queen's horses, and all the queen's men," he grumbled ineffectually to himself and turned off the telly in disgust, his appetite suddenly lost.

He gave Toby a grave look, and he could almost swear that the creature returned him with a knowing expression. Sighing again, he reached into his trouser pocket to unburden himself of the mobile phone he had been avoiding all morning.

He let his fingers tap on familiar but long-unused digits. But just as he was about to press 'Call,' Toby chose that moment to leap onto his lap then looked up at him expectantly. His hand suspended in mid-dial, Sherlock blinked rapidly, quite perplexed, and for a brief moment, the two held the strangest staring competition. With trepidation, Sherlock brought his free hand to pet the feline on his downy head. Sherlock wasn't sure if he was doing it correctly; it has admittedly been a painful number of years since he'd found himself in the company of a four-legged creature for a given length of time.

And as Toby purred his assent, Sherlock pressed the button and waited for a response. "It's me," he murmured apologetically into the speaker.

Toby remained content to suffer Sherlock's nervous fingers until he ended the call.

"Hello, Mum."

_shmhshmhshmhshmhshmh_

Sherlock spent the rest of the day pouring over reports, surveillance photos, dossiers, and maps––the contents of a parcel from "Amazon UK," addressed to one _Hayreddin Barbarossa_. One of Mycroft's couriers delivered it late in the morning. His brother merely lifted an eyebrow when he suggested the call signs they would use for covert purposes. Mycroft no doubt guessed the particular reason for the code names, but thankfully chose not to comment on it. The whole business was an exercise in distraction, anyway, he determined. He didn't even object when Toby decided to lay claim to the manila folder containing information on Moriarty's Tibetan cell, and making himself comfortable, plopped on top of it for most of the afternoon.

He was used to being able to pass the time devoid of human contact––John would be gone on holiday for days without his noticing––but oddly enough, he found himself anxiously looking forward to Molly's return. He attributed it to still feeling raw after his conversation with his parents, never mind that that had been hours ago.

Though he barely moved his head, something stirred within him at the sound of Molly's keys jingling at the front door. Once she was fully inside the flat, Sherlock looked over and nearly stumbled upon a short stack of files in his haste to come to her aid. He allowed a genuine smile to break onto his face, the first smile in the past week, as he greeted her, and helped unladen her arms of the things she carried. One of which was at large brown paper bag, warm and heavy in his hands, that emitted an aroma that made his mouth water.

As if reading his mind, Molly explained, "I know you don't eat while you're working, but I thought––"

"No, it's... good," he interrupted, gratefully. "I'm famished."

They ate dinner in silence, and only the clink of silverware on plates could be heard. He studied her features––the poorly concealed dark circles under her eyes, the wanness of her complexion––and could tell she was exhausted. He felt a pang of guilt at the knowledge that he was very likely the cause of that. He noted, too, that her gaze kept flitting to his side of the table when she thought he wasn't looking. He could tell she wanted to know what was going to happen next, but he truthfully didn't know himself. In any case, the less she knew, the safer she'd be.

After what Sherlock deemed to be a much more acceptable last meal, he watched as Molly rose from her seat to deposit her plate in the sink and began the process of washing the small collection of dishes that had been gathering there. He scrambled to his feet, his chair scuffing the floor as he stood, to stand next to her.

"Let me help," he offered, as he placed his own empty dish in the sink.

"No, it's fine––"

"I insist."

"Okay."

Wordlessly, and very much like at Bart's, he and Molly fell into a natural procedure as they worked together––she soaped and scrubbed, he rinsed and stacked. Banal though the task was, it was a welcome diversion from the heaviness of the past several days. Sherlock thought of how John and Mrs. Hudson might share a simultaneous aneurism at the sight of him doing something as _boring_ as washing the dishes, but thoughts like those are off-limits now, so he ventured elsewhere.

He became increasingly conscious of Molly's proximity to him, and more so alert every time their fingers brushed against each other's when she handed him a soapy plate or fork to rinse. He watched Molly from the corner of his eye, scrubbing a particularly stubborn dish into cleanliness. He recognized the look of concentration on her face––he'd seen her wear it countless times at work––the one that made her brow crease and her lips purse. He noted the tendrils of hair that slipped out of her ponytail, which she kept brushing out of her face futilely with her shoulder. Were his hands not already occupied, he knew with certainty that he would have brushed the hair out of her face for her, tucking the strands behind her seashell ear.

He was also very much aware of his heart beating under his chest, thundering so loudly, he was surprised that Molly could not hear it over the running faucet. Molly, in turn, continued scouring the plate in her hand, though it was already spotless, and the ditsy floral patterns on the linoleum tiles above the sink were suddenly of interest.

Shocking them both out of their reverie, he placed the plate he had been holding into the dish rack a bit harder than he should. Molly lifted her head from absently clearing debris from the sink, met his eyes, and gave him a mystified look. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but no sound issued from it. It only served to draw Sherlock's eyes to her lips, and the rest of his body automatically turned toward her. He knew they were standing at the precipice of a moment that could change everything. He wanted, more than anything, to give in to what he had lent much thought to in the past four days, ever since he asked Molly for her help.

He could let her in. If not for the very selfish reason that should the dangers poised by his quest to dismantle Morarity's network prove fatal, at least one person in the world would be left to genuinely mourn him, who was not bound by familial duty. But he knew it was more than that. He knew that if he let her, Molly Hooper could be the balm for the dull ache he carried with him for as long as he can remember, and that she was the person who mattered the most. Someday, perhaps he would have a chance to tell her as much.

He also knew that it would be ill-advised to lead Molly somewhere she could not follow. It wouldn't do to let her know now.

"I need your bedroom tonight," he blurted coldly, as he stiffened his body. Though it was a skill he mostly prided himself in, it alarmed him sometimes how effortlessly he could slip on his mask of indifference.

If she was disappointed, it only showed for an instant on her face––and Sherlock could claim he never saw it. Molly, wearing an inscrutible expression but ever pliant, didn't even ask what for.

"Need the space." He justified in feeble words, yet his tone was unrepentant.

She simply nodded, her body already half-turning away from him. "Okay. I'm going to have a shower. I'll just... grab my things." Before she left the kitchen, she uttered a quick, "Good night."

Sherlock was left standing next to the empty sink, his heart in his throat and a wet dishrag in his hand.

_shmhshmhshmhshmhshmh_

As the night grew later, Sherlock sought refuge in revising facts, figures, and faces gathered by Mycroft's intelligence service. An hour later, he realised he had gleaned all he could from the files, so he packed them all up in the indiscreet box they arrived in, later to be shredded and probably incinerated. His thoughts, truthfully, were someplace else entirely. Not even the cuppa he made was able to soothe his uneasy mind.

Toby slunk away to a hidden corner of the flat, as if in solidarity with his owner, and as good as vanished. Sherlock sat in the dark alone and contemplated the woman sleeping in the spare bedroom. He closed his eyes, bringing his fingertips together in front of his face. He really had no intention of actually sleeping in Molly's bedroom, much less sleep at all. He felt a pang of guilt for inconveniencing his very gracious host but he thought it for the best. He had half a mind, though, to rush into the room she occupied and apologise to her for, again, being a reprehensible arse.

Before he could devote another minute to the subject further, his limbs carried him in long strides to the threshold of the bedroom door. He turned the knob and pushed the door in slightly. He listened for Molly's deep, rhythmic breathing, indicating that she was indeed sound asleep. Light from a crescent moon sieved through half-drawn blinds, which gave Sherlock the impression that Molly was probably too tired to remember to shut them properly before climbing into bed.

He moved carefully, easing his body in the room completely. Tracing his steps from the night before, he deftly avoided that traitorous fifth step––the one that creaked––and brought himself to stand next to the bed.

He stayed inert for a moment, entranced at how the night cast an unusual light on her form like a celestial spotlight. He scanned her face, noting the absence of care and worry made her look more youthful. A small smile formed on the corner of his lips when he noticed that she had not been able to conquer those loose strands of hair, which now framed the sides of her face. He was mesmerized watching her chest rise and fall from underneath the blankets, content to be her safeguard and assure himself that no harm would befall her.

Rooted to the ground, he was aware that all this _feeling _was so unlike him. Inasmuch comfort as he took from Molly, she also caused him to lose his balance, like a planet nudged unexpectedly off its axis. A faint voice reminded him that he could no longer lay claim to being Sherlock Holmes, the genius detective who held reason sovereign above everything else––he jumped off the roof of Bart's two days ago. He was but a phantom of that name. He didn't belong with the living anymore: with John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade… with Molly…

In the dark, he can admit to himself freely that he had been desperately clinging to the life he once knew, since the day he foresaw his public death. Molly remained the last thread to which he held on. The time had come to sever that tie.

But before he did so, he allowed himself to be rescued by Molly once again. He thought if could only preserve this very moment in his mind palace, it would be enough for him to find his way back again.

With the practised and steady hand of a laboratory scientist, he moved aside that rebellious strand of hair from her face, as he longed to do earlier that evening. He brought his hands behind his back, letting his left hand grasp his right one. Feeling emboldened––what the hell, he was a dead man anyway––he bent over her and let his lips brush her hairline, leaving a light kiss on her forehead. He drew himself back quickly, as if he'd just done something reproachable. Sherlock let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

No, being around Molly didn't make him lose his footing. She calibrated him. He agonised over the loss of the chance to explore this delicious paradox because Sherlock was loath to leaving mysteries unsolved. He felt his body tremble with indignation and lament. He swallowed a knot in his throat and blinking rapidly, he struggled to clear his blurring vision. He brought a hand to wipe his eyes with his sleeve.

He turned his back to her and forced his muscles to carry him out the room. He denied himself a parting glance back at her, for fear he'd lose the ability to take his leave.

Just as he pulled the door to Molly's spare bedroom shut, the mobile he left resting on the coffee table suddenly sprang to life, its screen casting an artificial glow upon the living room. It vibrated incessantly against the mahogany tabletop. Sherlock thought wretchedly that he should deserve such a bizarre dirge to call him on. Or perhaps it's a knell, he amended.

He allowed the mobile to continue ringing, not daring to handle it physically just yet, though he knew exactly who the caller was and the terse conversation which was to take place. He let thirty seconds pass, for the mobile to lay dormant once again.

Another minute passed, and the screen lit up a second time. This time, Sherlock picked up the device. Its face stayed illuminated as he read the incoming text message from the only contact on the mobile's memory bank, ARUJ.

_It's time._

The screen settled into standby, and the room lay in the cover of night once more.

Sherlock picked up his Belstaff, which had been hanging from the back of the sofa, and put it on. He collected his other belongings, so as not to leave a trace. With his free hand, he opened the front door, muttering under his breath, "Unto the breach," before walking out of the darkness and into the unknown.

_shmhshmhshmhshmhshmh_

**1/4.**

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**Author's Notes: **So this little factoid tickled my fancy while researching elements for this fic: Aruj and Hayreddin Barbarossa were actual pirate brothers, loosely speaking, and their adopted surname means "Redbeard."

Anyway, thank you for reading. I truly truly appreciate your feedback! Cheers.


	2. suddenly

**Author's Notes: **Unmitigated gratitude and all-you-can-eat cupcakes goes to starlight-falls ( tumblr) for her beta and editing skills.

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"the moment pleasantly frightful  
when, her mouth suddenly rising…"

––e.e. cummings

_shmhshmhshmhshmhshmh_

**2\. suddenly**

A chilly rain fell on the roof and windows of the cab sitting in front of 221 Baker Street. Sherlock, who filtered the white noise during the ride home, barely registered that he had already arrived at his destination. He was occupied, mentally tallying his day's accomplishments: another case successfully concluded and presented to Lestrade, John safely delivered to Mary and little Rose, and today was Friday so that meant Molly's––_oh!_––

His eyes flew open as he jolted himself out of his mind palace, observing that the vehicle was no longer moving, and the familiar charcoal door was already in view. He caught the tail end of an announcement over the cab's radio about an amber alert that will take effect in London over the weekend. Through the rearview mirror, he briefly made eye contact with the cabbie who, no doubt was at the end of his shift, cleared his throat pointedly at his passenger. Sherlock briskly paid the man, pressing some notes into his palm, and slammed the door without a word.

As soon as he left the warmth of the cab, Sherlock could see his breath form before him, droplets from the night sky beginning to fall in closer succession. He scarcely had time to turn up his collar to guard against the biting cold when his long strides brought him across the pavement, deftly avoiding the small collection of puddles in front of his door. Once inside, he ruffled his hair in an attempt to dry it out as he ascended the steps two at a time. He had recently experienced of the plebeian appeal of Fridays, but not for reasons that most people looked forward to weekends. They simply happened to coincide with Molly's days off from work, and they also happened to fall into the habit of spending them at each others' flats.

Entering his flat through the kitchen entry adjacent to the staircase––the quicker route to his bedroom––he reached the door without bothering to turn on the lights. He found it slightly ajar and, mindful not to let it creak and disturb the room's sleeping occupant, opened it gingerly to let himself in. Sherlock found himself unable to suppress the smile that spread across his face at the sight that greeted him.

Molly preferred to sleep on her side, and on particularly cold nights like this, she liked to curl into herself underneath layers of blankets, tucked in a cotton cocoon. His duvet was gathered up in a bulbous mass on one side of the bed, from which peeked the crown of her head, the shade of her chestnut hair looking darker than normal in the absence of light. This suited Sherlock just fine, as he realized how perfectly his body moulded around hers when he climbed into bed after her.

Although he had long operated under the maxim that girlfriends were not his area, he very soon and very delightfully discovered that Molly was, in fact, naturally suited to being his area. The slow alchemy of their relationship––which, for many years, was stilted or thwarted––finally materialised shortly after Sherlock's triumph over Moriarty's resurrection. It had taken many non-starters, but the two had found their way to each other, and Sherlock knew––speaking for Molly as well––that he had never been happier.

He unwound his scarf and shrugged off his damp coat, and let them hang on the hook behind the door, next to one of Molly's lab coats. As he let his eyes adjust to the darkness, he made his way to his side of the bed, and stripped off the remaining articles of his clothing. Sherlock slipped under the covers, carefully wresting a corner of the blankets from a slumbering Molly's surprisingly firm grip.

Upon first contact with his skin, the sheets were icy cold and startled an inaudible hiss out of him. In no time, though, he shared in the heat that Molly had been storing under the duvet. He settled behind her, entwining his legs around hers––_hm, wool socks_, he noted appreciatively––and draped one arm over her waist. He instantly recognised she was wearing an old jumper of his––well, hers, now.

A relic from his uni days, the fabric showed distinct signs of age and wear, having been an old favourite. He mostly kept it all these years out of sheer optimism, in the hope that it might become useful in a future case. He discovered a renewed fondness for it after he'd offered it to Molly to wear one night, when she decided to sleep over but had nothing to wear. She couldn't be persuaded to sleep in the nude––_What if there's a fire, Sherlock? I wouldn't want to be caught starkers! _she cried incredulously––so he dug up the old thing and handed it to her, even as he sighed resignedly. She returned him with a grateful and contented smile.

He inched even closer to her body, an involuntary shiver rid himself of the cold, in the hope that exhaustion and the sound of the rain outside would lull him to sleep him. Sufficiently warm, he moved over her, meaning to drop a kiss on her cheek before he turned off his mind, but instead, he drew in a breath and inhaled her scent.

Sherlock had lived practically his whole adult life thinking that women walked about in a cloud of heady scents from a mixture of various shampoos, perfumes, and the like. It wasn't until he discovered that Molly was allergic to nearly everything under the sun, that he realized––and eventually proven correct––that she only used fragrance-free products. He buried his nose in her hair, nuzzling the space between her ear and neck. She smelled clean, and warm, and so much like the home he never knew he longed for. It struck him how much she pervaded his senses without being obtrusive. She always had a quiet presence in his life, but when he finally saw her, she was everywhere.

He inhaled her scent in the pillow under his head, in the sheets covering them, and from the woman he embraced. The idea that he was drinking in an unadulterated Molly was simply intoxicating. Instead of turning his mind off, a sudden rush of desire raked through him, and his body was, well, turned on. He offered up a silent, but not entirely sincere, apology for what he was about to do.

He slid the hand that was on her waist upwards to cup a breast that was easily within reach, massaging it gently through the thin material of the jumper, his thumb brushed against a raised nipple. Molly sighed and shifted a little in her sleep. As she settled in more deeply into his embrace, he became aware of her backside rubbing tantalisingly against the front of his body.

His hand went under the hem of the jumper, lifting it just so, to expose her stomach. He splayed his fingers across the expanse of her abdomen before trailing upward and returned to massage her breast, this time making contact with her warm flesh. Cupping her breast with his palm, he took a nipple between his index finger and thumb, rolling it to attention. He began kissing her neck, and though there was hardly any light to see, he focused his attention on the spot where he knew her beauty mark was, sucking on it lightly. He had long ago memorized that particular detail about the pathologist's anatomy. He used to find himself entranced by what most people would consider a blemish on her skin. Only now could he admit he that had always found it decidedly alluring, and even after months of intimacy with Molly, he was still pleased to be permitted access to it in this way.

Another sigh escaped her lips, a noise that sounded halfway between sleepiness and approval. And since he could not distinguish between the two at the moment, the sound Molly made only served to encourage him to coax a genuine moan of pleasure from her. At the very thought of the challenge, he felt blood begin to rush to his groin and his heart beat faster, the telltale signs of his growing arousal.

He removed his hand from her breast, eliciting a sound of displeasure from her. Satisfied at her wakefulness, he moved his hand to the side of her head, his palm almost completely enveloping it, and guided her face toward his. He leaned in to capture her lips in an increasingly hot kiss, met by her small but reciprocating nips. He allowed room for her body to turn towards him, slowly piquing and opening under his attention.

"Sh'lock?"

"Mm?" It was the most he was willing to articulate, without relinquishing his attempt to win the remainder of Molly's interest.

Sherlock moved above her, bracing his body with one of his arms, while he continued kissing her. Molly, who still needed a bit of convincing, pulled back slightly, attempting to turn her head to glance at the glowing red light of the bedside alarm clock. "Time izzit?" her speech slurred with sleep.

Sherlock had decided to aim lower, and his lips travelled down her neck, her own movement exposing her jugular. "Mm hmhm," he replied with a series of vocalizations, somewhere in the hollow of her collarbone, as his lips were otherwise occupied. He also decided that the once-favoured jumper was becoming rather an impediment to his goal. He paused to remove the suddenly offending piece of clothing, already bunched halfway up her torso, to grant him full access.

In doing so, he discovered that she had neglected to wear pyjama bottoms, in favor of just her knickers. For a brief moment, his mind held an image of Molly, her hair freed from its usual ponytail, walking about his flat in the now-divested too-large jumper covering her bottom, thick woolen socks up to her knees, and knickers. The idea did things to him that he could neither comprehend nor explain. So he simply decided to act on the impulse.

He closed his mouth around an exposed breast, biting and sucking lightly on her nipple. He felt her hands––their owner now fully awake––covering the sides of his head, her fingers running rousingly through his hair. She sighed appreciatively when he lavished attention on her other breast.

Not only was she alert, she was also in a teasing mood. "Case went well," she spoke again, but he could tell she was having difficulty forming words, "did it?" He smiled against her breast, at the small gasp that dotted her question.

Sherlock surfaced just briefly, a smacking noise sounded as he dislodged his mouth from her skin. "Molly," he said warningly.

"Yeah?"

"Do shut up."

She challenged him cheekily, her voice a bit raspy from disuse, "Thought you rather liked it when I screamed."

She pulled him up to kiss him fully on the lips, and he returned the kiss greedily, his tongue finally finding hers in the dark. After several moments of thorough snogging, he felt a faint tug downwards. Reading her silent request, he was more than eager to oblige. His lips resumed their journey down her torso. He felt her fingers card absently through his hair, feeling her touch deep under his scalp, urging him on. He kissed his way down her body, nestling himself between her legs. He shoved aside the covers then made quick work of her panties, thumbing them in a swift motion and tossing them unceremoniously over his shoulder.

He traced a fingertip along her slit, and dipping a finger in experimentally, he discovered she was already wet. A sharp intake of breath escaped Molly's lips, and Sherlock was sure it wasn't the result of the room's cool air touching her skin. When his lips found her sex, he left no room for doubt.

Sherlock alternately flattened and narrowed his tongue along and into her clit. Now he could properly claim he elicited moans of pleasure from her. He buried his nose in the light tuft of her hair, delighting in the sensation. He licked and sucked her sex, drawing in her scent, and the thought of their impending union caused him to become increasingly, unbearably hard. Molly writhed maddeningly under his ministrations. He slipped a finger inside her wetness, then two, the sensation of which caused her to grasp at his hair with one hand. Her other hand found purchase as he laced their fingers atop the disheveled sheets. His mouth, tongue, and clever fingers helped her find release. Her thighs trembled around his ears, as she came with a sharp gasp.

Before crawling up from the foot of the bed, he dropped kisses on her inner thighs, as he waited for Molly's tremors to subside. She reached for him, draping her arms over his shoulders, and drew him into a searing kiss. He crashed their mouths together with equal fervour, ceasing only when they were both left breathless. Sherlock moved his hips as Molly mirrored his motions––meeting him halfway––his hardness rubbing against her soft core, still wet from moments ago. She wrapped her legs around his waist, ankles crossed at his back, and took in a breath when she guided him inside her. He let out a gasp of his own, marveling at the sensation that felt both familiar and new again each time they came together.

Sherlock rocked into her, thrusting his hips keenly and as deeply as he could, feeling her so slick around his cock. Molly let one of her hands drift between them, while the other still cradled his nape, fingering his curls. He was almost unravelled by the pressure of her hand where they were joined, providing another nexus at which they were connected. He watched her face contort with pleasure, rubbing herself synchronously with the friction they created as he slipped in and out of her. Her amorous wailing drowned out the sound of the deluge outside, beating against the windows, keeping time with their movements.

Sensing that her orgasm was near, Sherlock lowered his mouth onto hers while her lips were parted, swallowing the higher decibels of her half-formed scream with a kiss. He managed to grunt a delayed response to Molly's earlier provocation, each word punctuated by the force of his thrusts. "I stand correc-_ted_."

He only needed to continue pumping into her briefly before his body followed hers. His mind stood still, occupied by a single goal, as his body raced to completion. With a last quiver, though for an entirely different reason than his shivering earlier, he spent himself and came inside her with a ragged groan.

His mind, clouded in pleasure and surrounded by everything Molly for an indeterminate number of moments, could only process what he would consider absolute joy. He barely sensed her hand gently rubbing small circles on his back. His mental faculties and pulmonary functions returning to normal, he realised he lay on top of her with his full weight. He murmured an apology before he slipped out of her and eased himself to her side once more. After kissing his lips softly, Molly turned her body against his, returning them to their previous positions. The air in the room began to feel cold again as their bodies began to cool. Using the remainder of his strength, he covered them both with the duvet and rested his arm around her waist once more, feeling moisture from their preceding exertions on her bare skin.

The room lay quiet again, save for Molly's breaths growing deeper and the drum of the rain against the bedroom window.

He lazily moved his thumb in a soothing motion across her skin, reveling in her nakedness. He couldn't help but get in one last word. Though he knew she couldn't see, he quirked the side of his mouth, dropped his voice, and whispered closely in her ear, her hair tickling him on the nose. "What if there's a fire?"

"Don't worry," she yawned, her voice heavy with sleep. "I'll save you."

He abandoned the impulse to let out a small chuckle, realising the truth in Molly's drowsy words. Before following her in sleep, Sherlock's last thought, as he finally pressed a much-overdue and long-withheld kiss on her warm cheek, was that she already has.

_shmhshmhshmhshmhshmh_

**2/4**

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Thank you for reading! I'd appreciate your feedback. Cheers!


	3. wholly

**Author's Note**: Much thanks again to starlight-falls for her incredible and invaluable feedback. All other errors are mine. Thanks to those of you who've read, commented, favorited, and followed!

* * *

"… wholly  
begins with mine…"

––e.e. cummings

_shmhshmhshmhshmhshmh _

**3\. wholly**

Despite it being only half-eight in the evening, 221B lay in relative quiet. The flat would have been completely dark, save for the soft light coming from the bedroom at the end of the hallway.

When Sherlock nudged the door open, the usually imperceptible sound created such a din, that its mover cringed outwardly. He looked over at Molly's sleeping figure, but thankfully, she remained undisturbed. He discarded his scarf and Belstaff on the coatrack, hanging the coat with particular care and patting it twice with a his hand. He toed off his shoes before approaching the bed, his footsteps muffled by his socks.

It seemed to Sherlock that Molly retired earlier and earlier lately, but it did not surprise him. He'd done his research, after all. It was not uncommon for him to come home and find her in a partially sitting position, propped up by a small pillar of pillows––one of which was his, but he could do without––on her side of the bed. Back pains again, he deduced.

He sank down next to her, doing his best not to jostle her sleeping form. Molly had recently become a heavier sleeper that he didn't have to try too hard, but he didn't have the heart to be the cause that wakens her. He reached over, and lifted the ruby-rimmed reading spectacles that were hanging nearly off the tip of her nose. He watched her face as he removed his mobile from his pocket, placing it on the nightstand. He reached down and traced her cheek with the side of his index finger.

Her cheek, plumper and rosier in her third trimester, radiated warmth that stole through his entire body. He continued to run his finger as lightly as he could, feathering down her jaw, chest, a filled-out breast and lingering just a bit longer on her raised nipple. He noticed that she wore one of her loose nightdresses, the one which rendered him unable to decide whether he preferred her better in it or out of it. He pushed aside the thought for a later time, and moved his finger until his hand finally came to rest on top of hers. The sight of their hands together, resting protectively over her swollen belly warmed his heart.

He knew he surprised everyone, including himself, when he didn't blanch at the news that he was going to be a father. Admittedly, he fought the urge to obsessively record Molly's vitals, food intake, bowel movements, and exercise. But the knowledge of Molly sustaining a life that they had created enthralled him in such a way that no case before nor––he should think––after would hold. He vowed to let sentiment be paramount during the following months. That, and he made it a point to drop by Bart's just a bit more often while Molly was on duty.

He rose briefly to shed his shirt and trousers, when Molly stirred, taking a languid breath. She slowly opened her eyes, bleary at first, adjusting to the dim lamp's light. Finally, her sight focused and she beamed at him airily. "You're home."

"Mm. Well spotted," he teased, silently thankful that Molly had awoken, for it allowed him to lean over her and plant a kiss on her lips without guilt. He climbed under the covers with her, leaning his back against the headboard and crossing his extended legs at the ankles. His hip landed on something hard. He picked up a book, which he surmised had fallen out of Molly's grasp when she dozed off, and placed it next to his ebook reader and her reading glasses on the nightstand. "Good book?"

"Good for putting me to sleep," she yawned, perfectly timed as if to illustrate her point. "How's the case?"

"Closed," he pronounced decisively. "Scotland Yard would fall apart without me." Molly gave him a withering look, though a smile belied the corners of her lips. "_Us_," he amended. "Thank you for your help today."

"My pleasure. And thank _you_," she requited, shifting a little to sit up straighter, "for bringing lunch in. How did you know I had a craving for something from Haz?"

He adopted the cadence of voice he usually reserved for making long-winded deductions. "Last night, when you wanted to check today's weather, you used my mobile instead of yours because yours was in your handbag which you left all the way in the sitting room. You checked the weather, googled the restaurant, shopped for shoes that Mary recommended for your back, and then went back to the restaurant's website to peruse their menu. So. Obviously_._ You had Haz on your mind." He couldn't resist adding, "That, and you might have also said something about their Sebzeli pasta in your sleep this morning, but I was only able to half make it out."

"I do not talk in my sleep," she laughed defiantly, and swatted at him playfully for good measure, while a faint blush rose in her cheeks. "I don't know where you get that idea from."

He placed a consoling kiss on her shoulder. "Between the two of us, Molly, I'm in a relatively better position to know." She shook her head in resignation. Sherlock slipped a hand on the back of Molly's neck, massaging his way down her vertebrae. "How's your back?"

"Better," she sighed into his touch. "Thank you."

He replaced his hand back atop Molly's which still lay on her belly, his thumb drawing lazy circles on the back of her hand. "And how's Sigerson this evening?"

When he and Molly first found out about her pregnancy, they attempted to keep it a secret from everyone, using "Sigerson" as a code name for the baby. After several weeks, it was Mary Watson who finally realized that neither of the two had an acquaintance named Sigerson––_and could you have chosen a more made-up sounding name?_ she pointed out––and forced the information out of them. Sherlock, who harboured a not-so-hidden pride in his invention of the alias, stubbornly continued referring to the bump on Molly's belly as such, even after they had officially told everyone. He reasoned that since they were keeping the baby's sex a surprise, it prevailed in serving its purpose.

"Good. I think he-or-she is having a nap."

That reminded Sherlock of something. "Oh!" his eyes widened, "Greg informed me today––"

"––Greg," Molly interrupted.

"I did say 'Greg'," he bristled.

"Oh. Sorry. Habit," she bit her lip. She quickly urged him, a bit sweeter than her normal tone, but less genuine than she can blame on a case of mummy-brain. "Go on."

The displeasure on his face was so evident that Molly apologised again and gave him a peck on the lips. Placated, he continued, "As I was saying, _Greg_," stressing the detective inspector's name this time, "informed me today that they've got a pool going at Scotland Yard regarding the gender of baby Holmes."

"Hooper-Holmes."

"Yes. Right. Sorry," he remedied. "Hooper-Holmes," Sherlock repeated, trying out the name on his tongue. Okay. Sort of a mouthful though.

"What?"

Did he say that out loud? "Nothing," he said immediately, trying not to sound too alarmed. He steered the conversation forward, "Er, anyway, I was told we weren't allowed to participate, given the conflict of interest, or some other nonsense."

"Well, that hardly seems fair. I'm doing all the hard work."

"Not to worry, I've got a man on the inside."

"Anderson?"

"Mm."

"Maybe we should name the baby after him."

Sherlock scoffed at the thought. "What, and give up Sigerson?"

"Sherlock," Molly admonished, somewhat seriously. "We're not actually naming the baby Sigerson."

"Why not?" She cast him a doubtful look, and he further argued, "It's a perfectly good name. It's unique."

"You mean like Sherlock?"

He shrugged demonstratively.

But Molly supplied with a familiar cadence in her timbre, summoning the deepest voice she can muster, "Obviously."

He wrinkled his nose. "Is that supposed to be me?" he objected.

Molly nodded, stifling a laugh.

"I don't say that," he huffed dismissively. "I don't know where you get that from."

She put a hand up to her mouth to hide the grin that remained on her face.

"Oh-kay. Going back on topic now…" Still reluctant to surrender, he pressed, "Sigerson. Not even if we have a girl?"

"Especially not if we have a girl. She'll despise you."

"Altamont?" Molly shook her head. "Escott?" She continued shaking her head. "Basil, with a soft 'a' sound," he insisted, and a little perplexed as to why Molly was having none of it.

She sighed noisily, but her face bore an unmistakable smile. "Maybe for a middle name. Or a second middle name… Or third."

Looking pleased with himself, he gave Molly a kiss on the nose, and began thinking up permutations of all four of his aliases with the surname Hooper-Holmes. While he was in the middle of "Basil Sigerson Altamont Escott Hooper-Holmes"––has a very nice ring to it––his eyes landed on the growing pile of boxes in the corner of their bedroom. Sherlock squinted. "Did another parcel from Mycroft arrive today?" he observed, pointing to the latest addition.

"Yes," she confirmed, her tone carrying a mixture of concern and amusement. "We're going to have to ask Mrs. Hudson to let 221C to us for storage if this keeps up."

When it came time to inform Mycroft that he was going to be an uncle, the elder Holmes looked impassive, merely raising an eyebrow and uttering an "Oh?" before he offered the couple a sincere congratulations and inquired about Molly's due date. Ever since then, a parcel bearing no return address arrived at Baker Street every other week, addressed to Baby H.

"And I have a weird feeling," Molly continued, "that he's got his hands on the ultrasound results because the delivery came with a note not to let you anywhere near the boxes. Apparently you're not supposed to deduce what's in them until after we've find out the baby's sex. I don't know whether I'm supposed to find it sweet or creepy."

"Definitely creepy," he replied, though unperturbed. "Although entirely expected."

She snickered, shaking her head. "And while we're on the subject of your family, your mum called earlier tonight."

"Again? Did you remind her that I was out on a case?"

"Yes, but she asked for Mrs. Hudson this time. They talked for a while, and then there was an awful lot of giggling coming from downstairs. That, or it sounded a lot like she was torturing an––"

"––an owl?!"

"––owl!"

They said simultaneously, and they both dissolved in their own fit of giggles. After a short time, they shushed one another, lest they disturb their landlady, who by then was probably experiencing the effects of her herbal soothers.

Sherlock's mobile interrupted, vibrating from the bedside table. He picked it up and slid the onscreen icon to unlock with his thumb. "It's from John. I'm supposed to remember to ask you if we're going to the anniversary dinner next weekend," reading the text out loud.

"Of course. I got a text from Mary earlier, in case John forgot to ask you. I already told her we'd go."

"Okay." He set the mobile down once again. "Good. Okay." A long, though companionable, pause settled between them as their hands remained joined. Molly closed her eyes, a soft smile playing on her lips. Sherlock looked thoughtfully at her, while surreptitiously keeping the coatrack by the door in his peripheral vision. He took a breath, "So…" he ventured the next words with a measured tone, "when do you think we'll have ours?"

Molly opened her eyes at the question, tilting her head to one side. "What, an anniversary?"

"No… er, a wedding… thing…"

She knitted her eyebrows. "You want to have a wedding?"

"No. More like… a––married?" The inflection came out all wrong. It irked him to suddenly have lost the ability to form declarative sentences.

"You want to get married?"

"Are you asking?" He laughed shakily at his own joke.

But Molly was not distracted so easily. "Sherlock… I thought you didn't believe in marriage."

"No… well, that's not––not exactly true––I mean, my parents have…" he trailed off. "Besides, as you know, there are many financial and legal benefits to being a married couple as opposed to simply cohabitating… not that there's anything wrong with the latter because this current arrangement we have is perfectly fine." He let out a mirthless laugh. When had his mouth gone severely dry, and more importantly, why was he still rambling on? "Plus, it's tradition, isn't it? And I––I think Sigerson should have a proper mum and dad who aren't living in sin." Oh, for god's sake. "Also we're practically an old married couple already, we might as well make it official!" Yes, well that was romantic, and nearly shouting that last bit made it decidedly so.

He finally shut up, pursing his lips together in order to keep them from opening again and saying some other regrettably idiotic thing. He removed his hand from Molly's as if it didn't deserve to rest there. He blinked, looking over at her, and waited for her response.

Molly, who looked about as stunned as he felt, opened her mouth as if to say something, but no sound came out. Instead, she did that mouth-thing she always did when she's considering something. She did it in both directions, so it must be something significant. He tried to read the expression on her face but all he found, curiously, was a flicker of smile and a determined countenance, although she gave no explanation. She pulled back the covers, and with visible effort, swung her legs off the bed. Sherlock got up to help her, but she declined by waving him away mildly.

He sat back down and folded his hands on his lap to stop them from tapping incessantly, his eyes following her with great interest. She padded across the room on fuzzy-slippered feet. A small part of him feared that she would actually walk out the door and remove herself from his life forever. When she stopped at the coat rack, his felt his heart skip a beat, but he restrained himself from reacting. His eyes grew wide when she pushed aside his Belstaff's lapels, reaching for something in the inside pocket. She paused to glance at him, as if to ask for his permission. Even as he tried to exude coolness in his appearance, Sherlock knew that––as some people might say––the jig was up. He should have known his clever pathologist would figure it out, and Molly did, invariably, always win. What most people might not know is that he didn't mind one bit.

He favoured her with a quirk of the upper lip and an almost imperceptible nod of the head, and she retrieved the object.

She made her way back to their bed, this time allowing him to help her get underneath the covers again. She did her best to turn her body towards him. She extended her arm, with an upturned palm, and held out a small, black velvet box.

Shaking his head, he finally let the chortle he had been holding back escape his lips, out of relief and amusement. He took the box from her and examined it briefly, as if seeing it for the first time.

"You left your browser open on your computer when you left for Southampton with John last month," Molly explained.

Sherlock winced, partly for his negligence and partly in memory of the Southampton case that barely warranted a five.

"I'm sorry I ruined your surprise."

With his other hand, he lifted her chin to gaze into her eyes. "You haven't ruined anything." He kissed her reassuringly.

She broke the kiss. "Are you sure?"

"Of course. I shouldn't be surprised you knew. You always know before I do."

"No, I meant, are you sure you want to do this? We're perfectly fine," using his phrase earlier, "the way things are."

"Molly," he began slowly, so as to get it right in one go. "If I can convert 'perfectly fine' to 'transcendently happy', I would." He added in a lower voice, "I want this."

Then, swallowing his throat as if it would stop the rapid beating of his heart, he opened the lid, wordlessly presenting the box's content to her. She let out a small gasp when she saw the ring inside. It was simple, sensible, and utterly exquisite. The glimmer in her eyes told him she was delighted in the results of his research.

She gave him a slight nod. Instead of taking the ring, she took the box from him, turned it around in her hands, and held the box out to him instead.

"Sherlock Holmes, will you marry me?"

Instead of answering, Sherlock sought her lips for another kiss, this time holding the nape of her neck with his hand to pull her closer. She responded with the same ardour, smiling against each other's lips. When he released her, he plucked the ring out of its cushion and discarded the box over the edge of the bed, grateful to finally be rid of it after weeks of carrying it in his inside left pocket.

He held Molly's ring between his fingers, the facets of the diamonds glinting impossibly bright even in the dim light from the lamp on the nightstand. He eased the ring on her waiting finger, where it sat perfectly. When Molly kissed him again, her left hand touching his face, Sherlock felt the coolness of the band against his cheek, and felt the fear and anxiety he also carried with him for weeks begin to diminish, replaced by the hopeful brightness for their future––all three of theirs.

He raised his eyes to meet hers and found she wore a watery smile identical to his. He gave her the only possible response to her question.

"Obviously."

_shmhshmhshmhshmhshmh_

**3/4**

* * *

Thank you for reading! I appreciate your feedback, as always. Cheers!


	4. fiercely

**Author's Note**: Much thanks, again, to _MagsyB_ who looked this over many moons ago. The chapter has since evolved, so all mistakes are solely mine. Thanks to my patient readers and reviewers of past chapters. I hope this is to your liking, as it is to my satisfaction.

* * *

"… fiercely to fool  
(and from my thighs which shrug and pant  
a murdering rain leapingly reaches the  
upward singular deepest flower which she  
carries in a gesture of her hips)"

––e.e. cummings

_shmhshmhshmhshmhshmh_

**4\. fiercely**

Molly woke in stages, Sherlock discovered during their first morning together.

First, came the nonsensical mumbling, in which she indistinctly recited what he recognized as Avogadro's constant, "… six point oh two two… ten to the twenty-third power…" Bewildered, he tilted his head toward the sound of her voice, but saw that her eyes were still closed.

Several minutes later, he felt movement from between their intertwined legs. For a mad second, Sherlock thought Toby had somehow managed to crawl underneath the covers––the creature _did_ have a disobliging talent for choosing inopportune moments to make himself known. Upon lifting the duvet covering the two of them, he was relieved to discover that it was merely Molly wiggling her toes.

Following a half hour of inactivity, she moved again, executing a full-body stretch, that––had he not already been awake––might have succeeded in startling him out of sleep. She pointed her toes and raised her arms above her head on the pillow, like a ballerina in a recumbent fifth position.

He managed to suppress a quiet, endeared chuckle as he looped his head in between her outstretched arms and engulfed her body in a gentle embrace, tucking the crown of her head under his chin. He felt her breathe a sigh of contentment into the hollow of his neck before settling down once again.

Pre-dawn light began to seep in through the blinds of Molly's bedroom, but Sherlock had been awake for almost an hour, taking in this altogether new sensation, both physical and emotional. His inability to sleep this time was not borne from the usual restlessness that plagued his mind. It was because he carried an impatient knowledge in his breast that something pivotal had transpired that night.

It had been exactly two months since his exile, and two months and five minutes since he began working to eradicate Britain of the "Moriarty" problem, once and for all. He exhausted himself for the better part of the past several weeks, with the single-minded goal of preserving the safety of those he cared for, and––yes, he would allow himself to use the word––loved. After finally overcoming his arch-nemesis and his band of followers, Sherlock believed he had earned and achieved a sense of normalcy in his life. But, as usual, there was always something.

He accompanied Molly back to her flat, like any other night––a habit that originated at the height of the Moriarty terror alert. Convinced that she would be a plausible target, Sherlock began seeing her home, citing distrust in Mycroft's people in their ability to keep her safe. Sometimes, though more often than not––not that he was keeping count––he ended up spending the night at hers.

After helping her devour whatever sort of takeaway she fancied bringing home, they passed their evenings watching telly until the frequency of Molly's yawns clocked in every two minutes, and she resigned herself to bed. He kept vigil over her from her lumpy sofa, on the other side of her closed bedroom door. He didn't even bother with the pretense of needing her spare bedroom as a bolthole. Satisfied as to her safety, he dozed for a few hours. When he woke the following day, he would find that a cotton throw had been placed over his body and breakfast pastries were waiting for him in the kitchen. The two of them hardly saw each other during the day, save for the occasional official business that summoned him to St. Bart's, but Sherlock never failed to appear by Molly's locker at the end of her shift. The routine continued, even after his second and permanent defeat of Moriarty and his organisation.

There was nothing unusual about last night, except, when Molly rose from the sofa to retire to bed, she paused in front of the coffee table, dropped her hand beside her and held it out to him. He did not relinquish contact with any part of her body for the rest of the night.

_shmhshmhshmhshmhshmh_

In the small hours of the morning, Sherlock found himself in Molly's bed, her sleeping form wrapped in his arms. The lack of sleep was not unusual for him, but what was odd was the absence of feeling compelled to be elsewhere; that though his mind was racing, he was exactly where he wanted to be. He was not normally given to reflection unless it was for a case, but this occasion warranted it. He directed his thoughts to the activities of the previous night––or perhaps just a few hours ago––after they had made love for the second time, when an unnamed _something_ tugged insistently at his chest.

Their first time together was exploratory, fumbling, full of "sorry"s and false starts, partly due to Sherlock's lack of experience and Molly's lack of opportunity. But they made up for the experimental touches and nervous laughter in eagerness to taste one another.

In the welcome haze of their first contact, he could not recall who kissed whom first, but he certainly catalogued the sensation of their lips' inexorable connection. Their bodies connecting, well, that was a given, too. They paused just long enough for him to awkwardly fret over not having a condom in his possession, and for Molly to soothingly inform him that she was on the pill. As soon as the words left her mouth, pleasure––not transport––became the sole purpose of his body. They came together, culminating in a physical catharsis of the emotions they long denied themselves, and they raced toward completion rather gracelessly.

Even while he waited for his heartbeat to return to its normal rhythm, he was already plotting how to redeem himself, and as he watched her face he knew she was of the same mind.

Being with Molly the second time was like hearing a composition that had never been played before, but he somehow knew by heart. He was, if anything, a fast learner, who had a partner who was equally adept. They tumbled each other into exhaustion again, but neither of them could bear to succumb to sleep. They sought to replenish the oxygen they had stolen from one another, while exchanging gentle caresses to reassure themselves that all that had happened was in fact real.

Sherlock was prone on his stomach, with his head turned toward her, a cheek resting on the crook of his arm. His other hand bridged the small gap between them. He stroked her hair––which he earlier liberated from its usual ponytail in between fervent kisses––twisting a lock of it around his index finger, and admiring the way it had come to frame her face, in disarray, wild from their activities.

She was lying on her side, the flat sheet modestly covering her body, tucked under her armpits on either side. Her head was supported by her palm and balanced on an elbow. She held out her other arm, and with a finger, traced what he imagined were stoichiometry matrices or the anatomy of the muscles on his back. Though there was hardly any light in the room, lit only by the glow of the digits of the bedside clock, he could tell she wore an amused smile on her lips. He was in the middle of recounting his latest case when her hand stopped moving abruptly, and she gave him a questioning look.

Her finger traced the paths of old scars. "Were these from…?"

"Yes." He winced involuntarily at the memory of being struck by the Serbian soldier before his brother finally deigned to intervene. Although they were not exceptionally deep, the scars became visible under her deft fingertips, especially by one who examined human tissue for a living.

Molly withdrew her hand from his back, and his skin immediately felt the loss of contact. She closed the space between them again, however, moving her body nearer to his. He heard the bedlinen's fabric rustle as she let it pool on her side of the bed. Sherlock's eyes drifted over her torso, giving her breasts a bit more than a casual perusal, before surveying her face. She swept her tousled hair to drape over one shoulder, managing to nearly cover one of her breasts, obscuring the nipple. He kept his eyes trained on her, but did not move when she left his field of vision. She rose on her knees and straddled his backside.

The initial thought that crossed his mind was that Molly was initiating their third encounter of the night. His body had most certainly already recovered by then, and he was eager to prove a willing participant. His heart beat riotously in his chest as if it threatened to dislocate itself from his ribcage.

Instead, he felt her pepper featherlight kisses on his back while her strong hands held on to his flanks, her hair faintly sweeping along his side. It felt so intimate an act, even though they had already made love twice that night. He wanted it seared into his memory.

An unexpected thought sprang from where he had stored it away in his mind palace. Edmond Locard, a pioneer in forensic science, once conceived of the principle of exchange: that at any given crime scene, every contact leaves a trace. While that prevailing wisdom was what inspired his investigative genius, Sherlock now concluded that the same is true, too, of Molly's kisses. They left more than just an incidental trace, but a mark so imperishable, so irrevocably fixed that anyone would be able to decipher the evidence and discern the truth––that he belonged to her.

And though he never believed in the restorative power of kisses in healing one's injuries, he could not deny the indescribable levity he felt in his chest. His eyes fluttered shut while another sort of fluttering commenced inside his ribcage, as she continued to skim his back with kisses to her satisfaction. He intended to savor the sensation, which he now galvanised into his mind.

He never imagined he would ever allow himself to be so moved by a person. It took him years to finally realize that she had chosen him, actually and truly, but it still remained beyond his comprehension as to why. He wanted to discover the answer to that quandary, and knew that it lay buried in her inimitable mind, in her unfailing goodness, and––as he had discovered just a few hours ago––in the way her body moved under his. What he wanted more than those, though, was to be worthy of her choice.

He turned his torso to face her. He reached up and drew her up to his chest, their legs ribboning together. He held her there for several moments, reveling in the sure weight of her body on top of his.

His heart swelled for her, spilling over into a smile on his lips. A hand travelled down her back, while the other clasped hers above his sternum. When he brought his face even closer to hers, he paused briefly to kiss her upper lip in request, though the hunger behind it did not go undetected. She responded by pressing their lips together in a fuller kiss, slanting and opening her mouth to his. Their tongues met in the middle, and she let him in, a prelude to what they both knew was to happen.

The hand that was idle on her back wafted down the length of her spine, while his other hand cradled the back of her head. Her own hands tangled themselves in his hair, her nails scraping his scalp lightly. Without breaking their kisses, Molly began to move her body on top of his titillatingly, undulating her hips gently at first, and creating friction where her pert nipples rubbed against his chest. Sherlock's hand found its way to an arse-cheek and gave it an encouraging squeeze. Molly laughed into his mouth, still unaccustomed to this fairly new sort of intimacy between them. He answered her with a chuckle of his own to concur, then captured her lips and tongue with renewed interest as if to steer the mood to a more serious direction. Molly happily complied.

He could feel his arousal beginning to grow, and just as surely, he knew that if he dipped a finger inside her, he would find her already wet for him. The mere thought caused him to groan against her mouth. She allowed him a punctuating kiss on the lips before he laid her on her back and covered her body with his.

Once settled in this new position, Sherlock pressed intermittent kisses down her neck, clavicle, and chest, wordless pledges that trailed upon her skin in the hope that they might permeate into her very veins. He brought a hand to glide down her body to rest on her inner thigh, lightly brushing her pubic mound with his fingertips. His mouth hovered briefly at the curve of her breast, before he covered a dusky nipple with his lips. He swirled his tongue around the nub, which pebbled at his ministrations. He ventured a gaze up at Molly, whose eyes were trained on him, the expression on her face shifting somewhere between delight and arousal, wholly unapologetic and completely maddening.

Sherlock suspected he must have the same look mirrored on his face, but he ignored his current desire to absolve himself of the primal need to simply sink himself deep inside her heat. Instead, he distilled his efforts in the meticulous reverence of her body. He closed his lips over her other breast, and lavished the same attention on it, sucking, licking, and lightly biting her nipple. The hand that was stroking her thigh seemed to move on its own accord, coaxed by Molly's persuasive writhing. He finally let a finger slip into her waiting entrance, finding it indeed already wet. He easily added another finger while his thumb rubbed small circles on her clit, applying the amount of pressure he discovered she liked just hours before.

With forced concentration, he marked the sounds emanating from her, erratic pants offset by languorous moans. Sherlock could feel Molly's increasingly slick walls contracting and releasing around his fingers. He was finding it difficult not to rut his prick against her leg in a rather undignified fashion––though, from the way Molly responded to his touch, they were decidedly past decorum.

He simultaneously longed to join her in her impending release, but also wanted to see her to completion. Mercifully, Molly decided for him by pulling his body upwards and locking her legs around his. Her impatience became deliciously evident in the way her hands roamed across the expanse of his moist skin. A breathy sigh and vague syllables that resembled his name fell from her lips when he moved his fingers away from her. His mind was beginning to form the conclusion that the sight of Molly nearly unravelled was the most beautiful thing he had ever beheld.

Before he could tender further deliberation to the thought, Sherlock felt Molly's hand snake between their bodies until her grasp encircled his length, reminding him how painfully hard he was. He gave himself over to Molly's loving hand, which pumped him needlessly, though the gesture was entirely not unwanted. His hips began thrusting upwards, instinctively trying to find release. While he still possessed a trace of his wits, he managed to still her hand with his. "Need you," he choked. (He never wanted to stop needing her.)

As if in affirmation, her lips found his, and she opened for him once again. Their tongues met, scraping against teeth, in hot, wet kisses. Her hand stopped stroking his cock, and he groaned against her mouth when she moved the tip of it at her entrance. He all but needed to tilt is hips ever so slightly, and he slid into her easily. He entered her slowly––or as deliberately as his need would allow––letting one another grow accustomed to the sweet ecstasy. And when they both gasped with pleasure, he moved, renewing the sensation.

The sounds of their sighs, half-formed words, and meeting flesh filled his head, and his heart insisting to leap out off his chest for all its thunderous beating. He plunged in and out of her, while they touched and kissed and explored. In syncopation, she matched the movements of his hips, building on each other's growing and greedy thrusts. She released his lips long enough to breathe his name. "Sherlock," she begged, and without being told, he brought his hand between them again to rub her sex and usher her to release.

When she came, her back arched and hands clutched his shoulders to hold herself steady. He barely registered her fingernails marking trails down his back as his own orgasm followed shortly, encouraged by her clenching walls. He answered her cry with a grunt of his own, slowing his thrusts to a rocking motion, culminating in a final thrust. Spent and exhausted, he sank his head on the curve of her neck, drawing in her scent, panting a little to regain his breath. A satiated sigh rushed out of Molly and she turned to him with a wide smile and a small giggle. He beamed at her, only partially out of his senses still, before rolling over on his side once more.

He let his hand drift to rest on her cheek, and a thumb lightly stroked her fully kissed bottom lip. She reached to cover what she can of his hand, and moved her head to kiss his open palm. He pulled her close and kissed her on the lips before letting his drowsiness settle in. His penultimate thought before sleep came was how easily the words formed in his mouth, and how no feeling––not even a 10––rivaled the elation at hearing Molly whisper the words back to him.

His last resolve before sleep was that he would dedicate an entire wing in his mind palace to preserving the memory of the last few hours.

_shmhshmhshmhshmhshmh_

When he opened his eyes, Sherlock was initially confused to find himself surrounded by walls that were not of his own bedroom. But once he drew breath of the familiar scent that he had come to classify as simply and indelibly Molly, he knew he was exactly where he was meant to be.

There were many times in his life when he feared the darkness would swallow him up whole. His old self would have given in to the fear, and retreated into his accustomed shell of non-sentiment and cold reason. But now he came to realise that Molly had always been the bulwark that prevented him from irretrievably disappearing into the abyss of his own self. She saw him precisely because she emitted a source of light that rendered him visible in her spectrum. The same light ebbed away at the darkness that he had been drifting through for so long. It was only now that he was able to name the surge of emotion he felt last night––it was an epiphany that from then on, his existence would be categorised between his life before and his life after knowing Molly in these past few hours.

Just as he had descended into the land of the dead with her help, he found himself ecstatically aware of life––of the sounds of London waking in the world outside Molly's bedroom, of the cars and buses motoring passengers through the streets below, of the first flights soaring into the dawn, but especially of the breaths issuing from the woman who was beginning to stir awake in his arms. He gladly welcomed her help again.

They still had much to talk about and even more to decide when the rest of the morning ushered in, but there was one thing Sherlock was certain of. The moment his blue eyes met her brown ones, he decided he would live to watch Molly Hooper wake up next to him.

_shmhshmhshmhshmhshmh_

**4/4**

* * *

I realize that this part of the story is told anachronistically. This was done intentionally. I wanted to bookend Sherlock's relationship with Molly (Parts 2 and 3) with the moment he realizes he loves her and the moment he acts on it. I really hope this was to your liking. I had a tremendous time writing it, trying to wring out my take on the Sherlolly relationship. Thank you so much for reading, and as always, feedback is greatly appreciated! Cheers!


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